"Factotum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cornish D M)

PATER MAUPIN

A strange burbling twitter in its throat, Darter Brown emerged from the pencil pine in the middle of the yard to land staunchly on Rossamund's hatless head.

Coming as protector at Maupin's side was the very sabrine adept who had hacked at the Handsome Grackle, clad in his eccentric harness, his eyes yet raw from the glister thrown in his face. At the proprietor's other flank sashayed the deadly dexter woman, Anaesthesia Myrrh, dour-faced and festooned in black, thrusting before her the most startling arrival of them all. For there in her cruel grip, still dressed in his carmine coat and black longshanks, was Rookwood, downcast, defeated and utterly ashamed.

"Is this the little selt-kisser, then?" Pater Maupin demanded coldly of his white-haired hostage, his voice smooth like cream, his sneer like a blow. "Was this your worrisome guest of yesternight?"

Rookwood's harried glance flicked over Rossamund.

Becoming glassy-eyed, submerging any guilt, the young factotum simply blinked at him.

Rookwood shrugged, and at a signaling flick of Maupin's silk-shrouded and violently jolted, contracting in on himself under the dexter's brief encouragement. Sagging in the woman's grasp, Rockwood nodded. "Yes… yes, it is…"

The old proprietor's eyes slitted in silent, vengeful fury.

Ears ringing, Rossamund tautened, ready for desperate deeds.

"Pitter-Patter Maupin, Needle of the Dogs," Europe's voice purred from behind.

Rossamund's shoulder tingled at the firm touch of her hand.

"What remarkable occasion has provoked you to shift from your seamy couch to belabor me at my own door?" Europe's feigned sociability was the barest mask. "I see you have brought your full menagerie," she continued. Wholly ignoring the swordist, she regarded Rookwood fleetingly, then cocked a dismissive brow to the dexter and said, "Anaesthesia," dipping her alabaster brow in mock courtesy to the black-clad lahzar.

Jerking the forlorn white-haired fellow aside, the dexter peered at the fulgar steadily, eyeing her as an untested rival. About her and her master the sturdy fellows closed, inflating their brave bosoms and glowering meaningfully. Watching Rossamund closely, the swordist fondled the broad strapping of a bautis-the heavy wooden cylinder that held the deadly therimoir-hanging across his back.

The young factotum shivered at the thought of the virulent white blade.

"Well-a-day, Lady Bramble," Pater Maupin answered smoothly. "Is that the fashion in which one greets an old compatriot in the ancient struggle? I have come only to recoup grave losses," he said, lingering darkly on the word, "incurred through no provocation of my own-or that of my associates-by a member of your own staff, namely that stunted mewling there." He flicked a ruffled gesture Rossamund's way.

"Truly…" Europe's word dripped sugary malevolence. "And how, pray, has that to do with me?"

Maupin smiled with his own cunning. "Perhaps you did not know the full and base character of such a fresh-appointed employe," he said sidlingly. "I know only too well that one cannot reckon every facet in a person before engaging them, and as such I-we-do not care to hold you personally indemnified…"

"How kind," Europe murmured, and regarded him languidly, a deadly kind of smirk fluttering at the sharp edges of her ruddy lips. "Yet I know the full character of this one full well, sir. If you have found exception with it, the fault can only lie with you."

The owner of the Broken Doll possessed himself enough to refrain from choking on her words. "If this were simply damage and depletion, I might accept such unkind expressions so ungraciously given and move on." Though he kept his voice even, a heavy passion lurked under it. "Yet it also involves the vanishment of a much valued deputy who had, this night gone, set out to fetch yon brat"-a glare for Rossamund-"and present him to proper justice."

"Vanished, is it?" The fulgar's gaze flicked for the briefest inquiring glance to her young factotum. "How careless of you, Pitter-Patter, to lose dear people so…"

The proprietor's mien darkened. "It is more than this, sparking hag. My deputy is, I suspect, undone. Not slot nor drag nor particle of him can be found."

Rossamund swallowed.

"Even less will you discover here, sir," the Branden Rose said coolly.

"I little doubt it." Lifting his chin, Maupin peered down his cheeks at her, his expression plainly telling that he believed her the reason for the dandi-dressed wit's end.

The tingling in Rossamund's shoulder where his mistress' hand rested became a needling.

"Surely you have more useful pastimes," she said, "than to impugn me and my staff upon the witness of confessions swingeingly extracted from some tetter-faced obsequine. You waste both our days, sir!"

Forgotten and slinking slowly to the fringe of the threatening host, Rookwood cringed at his mention and, with a bitter glance through the gang of roughs to Rossamund, slunk yet farther from the epicenter of conflicting wills.

"Waste makes for want." Maupin smiled dangerously. "And I-and my associates-want fair due. Let this one"-he sneered once more to the young factotum, who balled his fists and scowled in return-"sit beneath a telltale's gaze. If he is condemned by his own words, I shall, as I said, not charge you as responsible. You can hire yourself another runt-there are plenty to be had."

"I happen to like this particular runt," Europe returned with utmost calm. "He shall stay with me."

Maupin's two spurns stepped forward, the swordist with bautis-box open, the dexter Anaesthesia smirking, her dark lace and black frills prickling with static.

The Branden Rose did not shift, yet her own menace seemed to magnify.

Staying his ground, Rossamund wished he had more than his clenched fists for weapons and a simple weskit for proofing.

Here Maupin chose to raise his hand, the slightest sign for his own staff to yield. "No need for such vulgar behavior, I think," he said calmly.

The genteel clearing of a throat sounded from on high.

The young factotum-and everyone with him-looked above to find the windows on several floors of Cloche Arde thrown open, the slender barrels of several firelocks protruding from them with menace of their own. Among the various house staff Rossamund spied Fransitart at the window of his set, a particularly heavy musketoon raised to his shoulder, and at the very next casement found Craumpalin, potives clearly in hand. The dispenser threw him a wink. Even Pallette was there, glowering down as if this were weapon enough. Below them, in Europe's file, stood Mister Kitchen, blunderbuss firmly under arm and trained squarely upon the proprietor of the Broken Doll.

"Might I humbly suggest m'lord choose more fulfilling activities for himself today," the steward offered steadily.

Pater Maupin's brows rose slightly, his eyes passionless as they took in the situation. He smiled an empty reptilian smile. "The quality of your help has sadly deteriorated, madam," he said, and with that he turned and walked through his servants, the roughs parting before him like the vinegar before the blade of a ram. The whole tribe of pugilists gathered themselves back into their coaches, the dexter Anaesthesia ever keeping her cold regard on Europe, staring at her still from the carriage window as the company went on their way.

Turning her back on it all, the heiress of Naimes fixed Rossamund with an inquisiting eye. "It seems the events of your excursion went a little more eventfully, little man."

Watching the glimpse of the last carriage retreat south down the Harrow Road, Rossamund would not look to her. "They would not have fought, would they?" he asked solemnly.

"Maupin was certainly in earnest," the fulgar answered slowly. "How much further he might go, I cannot say." With a meaningful look and no further questions, she peered up at the jumble of staff still at Cloche Arde's windows. "Thank you, Mister Kitchen," she called. "Inform Condamine that it will be roast hart's tongue and a glass of vinothe for all tonight."

"As you will, m'lady." The steward becked, his eyes glittering with pleasure.

The yard empty of clattering racket, Rookwood was found, bruised and left behind, hobbling for the gate. Finding himself discovered, the young fellow halted and bobbed obsequiously.

"Are you well, sir?" Rossamund inquired, hurrying to help the fellow.

"I'm sorry, my man," Rookwood breathed in apology. "They were just too… persuasive."

Summoning him over, Europe inspected her battered white-haired guest silently. "Mooning after lahzarines is simple stuff from a safe vantage," she said finally, "but commerce with Cathar's children will only bring you grief."

Clearly overwrought, Rookwood paled and quivered, bending low and uttering fumbling words of contrition. "They… they saw me with Rossamund last night… They sought me out… No harm on my part in any fashion intended… Threatened such grievous harms upon my aunt… I had no part in… in…"

The fulgar finally interjected. "Enough, sir!You have been tangled in more than your share. Sit in my hiatus until a carriage is brought."

"This is more than I deserve," Rookwood said, face contorting into an ugly imitation of a humiliated grin.

"Yes," said Europe coolly, "it is…," and she left him to Rossamund's uneasy care.

As their guest settled in the waiting room, rubbing his face with a wet cloth, some warming saloop was brought.

Eager to have a task to punctuate the awkwardness, the young factotum sought upstairs for his stoups and a measure of levenseep to mix with the beverage. "Are you hurt this time?" he asked upon his return, knowing full well what it was like to suffer a fulgar's puissance.

"More in honor than in limb, sad to say," Rookwood replied, ducking his head. "That's twice you've picked me off the ground in as many days, sir-I am in your debt." Shamefaced as he might have appeared, he was sipping saloop heartily enough. "So tell me, Mister Bookchild, did you truly throw stinging powders about the pit?"

"Aye-"

"Wo-ho!"The fancy fellow chuckled, his vigor clearly returning. "And I thought I had pluck… I don't know what made you do it, but you caused a genuine uprising, people running and crying out." He peered at Rossamund admiringly. "I tell you, Pitter-patter More-Pins is terribly upset, as he kept telling me. Most of the pit's collection got free. Folks'll have to go to the Pin amp; Needle now for their pit-side thrills."

With a bemused smile, Rossamund shrugged as if it were all a matter of course, keeping his satisfaction at such news to himself.

Perhaps mistaking this as something less happy, Rookwood lifted a placating hand. "Never fear, my man, we have all done a fool's part in early life. I'll not begrudge you your eccentricities if you'll pardon my part in today's adventure." The fellow beamed at him as if doing him a great favor. Relieved soon enough of Rookwood's company-the white-haired fellow leaving in good spirits with a promise that they should try such an adventure again presently-Rossamund retreated to the peace of the saumery.

Steps rang on the stairs as Europe entered without a knock.

"I see you have been quick to refurbish," she observed lightly, eyes passing over the blanks where the cabinet pictures had once been. They came to rest on a copy of the "Notice to the People" from Winstermill, retrieved by Pallette from his old frock-coat pocket and fixed to the wall with court-plaster.

"Aye," Rossamund answered a little cautiously.

Europe stood for a moment while he made show of fossicking through a parts drawer. "I thought it necessary to show you the making of the traces and lesser draughts I require," she said suddenly. "Yet first I must know that I can trust the one to whom I show such learning." She paused pointedly, apparently absorbed in some mark on a parts drawer.

"I-" Rossamund hung his head. "Aye, you can…"

"Do you think me simple, little man?" his mistress purred, turning her keen gaze on him.

A dark thrill of compunction rippled through his soul. "I-uh-n-no…"

"Do you truly think I would believe even the least wit could lose you as easily as you have told to me?"

Rossamund had no response for this.

Europe took a seat on the sole highback in the room. "Pater Maupin is too well served for such a valued and missing servant to remain unfound… And you and I together know that you could not have ended your pursuer."

"No…" His voice was the merest breath of air.

Even this small admission was a profound relief.

The fulgar beheld him.

Glance by reluctant glance, Rossamund lifted his attention to look at her squarely and found in her canny hazel regard that she understood much yet held her words… Rossamund was grateful she did not press for more.

Abruptly, she produced a thin tome from her coat, hand-bound in scuffed and reddened reptilian hide. "This is an expurgatory, a lahzar's list-"

Rossamund sucked in a breath.

"I see you know of them." Europe's smile was thin. "You must never be found with it-suspicion is one thing but proof another. Stow it the same with cunning you are employing to keep last night's secrets…"

Rossamund stared at the small volume in awe as it was handed to him. Within was a collection of disparate papers, marked mostly in two hands: one he did not recognize and the other he instantly identified as Licurius' graceful script. The thaumacra were in order of incidence of use rather than letter-fall: saltegrade, unbordated felibrium, levinfuse, syntony, sangfaire and several more. Among the recipes were esoteric hints to sources of the best parts, impossible properties like falseman's ichor or kraulschwimmen gall, and their nearest alternatives, quotes of ancient lore and even scrawled obscenities against the unterman.

"Saltegrade is for before every fight," Europe explained. "Levinfuse is for the biggest stouches, felibrium I have to take at the start of each week and am currently running low…" She went through them all.

A little lighter in his heart, Rossamund stared at the script for saltegrade as if to press it into his mind, repeating the parts over and over under his breath, "Three parts Spice of Zichre… one part salt-in-gloom…" He looked up. "Miss Europe, I apologize for… for trying to save the Grackle… and provoking that Maupin fellow."

Pursing her lips, Europe considered him, her eyes clouded, her intent unclear.

"One might think," she said at last, "that with an Imperial Secretary, a military clerk and a massacar of minor talent as enemies, our tale had its count of antagonists without adding more."

Rossamund looked at her shamefacedly, but she did not notice, nodding rather to the black stink rising from the testing pan behind him.

"I think you will need to brew again, little man," the fulgar said mildly, "unless char is to be your latest innovation on my treacle."